CROATIAN SAGA 2

Luka likes to organise things. Concerts, recordings, festivals, tours. I did survive most of them. Some I didn’t. Sometimes I want to kill him, but he knows I won’t. He’s one of those people you love regardless, even when you feel like getting a baseball bat out.

A phone call. I look at the display. It’s Luka.

L – ‘How are you bro? Are you free on such and such date? I have a gig for you’

Me – ‘Sure, what’s the gig?’

L – ‘Oh, you’re going to love it. Great people, great place, background music. You just sit in a corner and play for an hour or so. Easy’

Me – ‘Solo? I play violin dude, remember? How do you play a violin solo for an hour?’

L – ‘Oh no, not violin, it’s a guitar gig… don’t worry, they are going to love you. You play whatever you want, any style, a bit of Gypsy, a bit of Jazz, usual, you know. Easy!’

Me – ‘You know I don’t play guitar, do you?’ 

L – ‘Do you have a guitar?’ 

– ‘yes’ 

– ‘Do you have an amplifier?’

– ‘I do’

– ’Do you know how to play E major?’ 

– ‘Well, kind of..’

– ‘Great, put it in the diary, you are booked’

I start to panic. I don’t like where it is going. I say – ‘Dude, I can’t play E major for one hour’

L – ‘Don’t worry, nobody is going to listen, it’s a function. In and out. Here is the address, be there at eight, sorry, have to run’ 

Me – ‘Wait!!!!!’

L – ‘Oh sorry, I forgot. There’s something else. Your name will be Mr Gonzales. Don’t let me down, I’ll explain later. See ya, bye’ 

Me – ‘What?! Wait!!!’

He hangs up on me.

For your information, Mr Gonzales (the name is not real) is our colleague, a Latin guitarist who plays Jazz, Tango etc. Only Steve Wonder can mistake me for Mr Gonzales. I am 180cm, and he is one meter tall, I am separated and his wife is a kick-boxer, his eyes are black, mine are big. If there is anyone on this planet who doesn’t look like Mr Gonzales, that would be me. And the most important part is – he plays guitar and I don’t, never did and never will. I know where E major is, but that’s about it.

I try to call Luka, but his phone is off. Forever. Five days, 30 unanswered calls later and against my best judgement, I decide to chance it. After all, I took the gig. I am booked. So, I drive to the place, guitar, amplifier and all, feeling silly, angry, but determined to see this through. I say to myself – ‘very low volume, lots of reverb, a bit of tuning, a bit of chatting, it will take 10-15 min at least, take a few breaks, that’s another 10 min gone, hopefully everyone will be too drunk to even notice I am there. Drunk people don’t care much about stylistic inconsistencies.

I arrive to the venue – a nice country house. I walk to the reception. I say to the receptionist – ‘Hi, my name is.. mmm.. Gonzales, I’m here for a function?’ Then I hear – ‘Mr Gonzales, Mr Gonzales!!!’. I see a very animated young gentleman, running towards me, waving his hands and having his smile stretched from one ear to another. – ‘Mr Gonzales, you are so welcome! I’m Frank. It’s so good to see you! Ow, and thank you so much for cancelling your tour. How was your flight?’

Me – ‘Flight? What flight? Oh yes, THE flight. I see. Yes, it was good.’ 

Frank – ‘How was your tour?’ 

Me – ‘A tour? Oh, THE tour. Yes, it was good….’

That’s what I was saying. What I was thinking was somewhat different. I was thinking – ‘Luka….I’ll get you and I will kill you’

Frank grabbed my guitar, thus cutting all escape routes so I was doomed. He brought me to a room. It was the second time when I promised to kill L. It wasn’t a function. It was a concert. A little stage, 50-60 chairs and absolutely nowhere to hide. It was already half full, and when we came in, somebody started to clap. Frank gave me a quick heads up. Spanish music. Flamenco, to be specific. Two hours, 15 min break, as per booking agreement. (Booking agreement!!!!!????).. I realise there’s no way out. I am trapped. I start sweating. I go to the stage and start to unpack. I see a sweet old lady, sitting in a first row, surrounded by her two (obviously) daughters, all looking at me and smiling. One of the daughters shouts in the old dear’s ear – ‘Mommy see, this here is your man, this famous Flamenco guitarist, flew here straight from AMERICA he did.’ Then to me, in a normal voice – ‘Mr Gonzales, say ‘hi’ to me mom, would ya?’, and in a very quiet voice – ’She don’t remember much poor thing, she forgot we booked ya for her birthday’.  I come to say ‘Hi’. This old girl was so sweet…! She said – ‘I’m really looking forward to hear your music. I heard you’re AMAZING!!!’. That was a moment when I decided I can’t run. Even if I had to sing ‘Macarena’ for this old darling.

The good man Frank came and made everything right. He said – ’Mr Gonzales, would you like a drink?’ – ’Would I? Jeezus, yes certainly’. You can say anything you want about the alcohol and a damage it does to our heath, but this evening it saved Luka’s life and Mr Gonzales reputation. I drank at least two bottles of red wine. I don’t remember how and what I played. I was angry and I was drunk, but I played the whole gig, all of two hours. They said later I played Flamenco with ‘subtle Eastern undertones’

Soon people started to talk to me, only they didn’t want to speak English. I don’t know what the Latin connection was, but most of them couldn’t wait to show off their Spanish. Me, I knew one curse in Spanish. Also I knew two words – ‘Adios’ and ‘Puta’. I thought if I use them sparingly and strategically, it might liven up our conversation a bit. I knew ‘No Pasaran!’ as well, but I didn’t think it was appropriate, so I left it out.

So, I managed to play a solo guitar for two hours using one chord, and I managed to converse in Spanish with twenty people using two words. And a curse. And some Russian. Don’t ask me how I did it. What kept me alive was a thought – ‘It will pass. It will. And when I am out of here, I am going to find you. When they bury you, I’m going to play Flamenco guitar on your grave. Flamenco with ‘subtle Eastern undertones’

Luka is smart. He knows me well. He disappeared. He knew I couldn’t stay mad at him for the whole month. Our friend Gonzales stayed angry for much longer. Someone told him about the gig, and told him that everyone was very happy. ‘He is good’, – they said. ‘He is a great guitarist’, – they said. ‘A bit weird he was though, insulted few our Spanish friends, he did, but what a player!!!’

It turned out Luka originally booked Gonzales for the gig, but something went wrong and L had to improvise on the spot. So he called me.

Luka is still alive, well and full of ideas. I cornered him eventually, but he said – ’Don’t be so negative! I told you everyone is going to love you. Didn’t I?’

For my next gig he managed to mix his dates up, so when I arrived at the venue, they told me the gig is not on for another week, but that is a different story.

And now the most important part.

Believe it or not, but this story is 100% true, to the last word.